100
by My Vantilene
Summary: An interpretation of how Jack met the other guardians before he was chosen to be one himself. (Plus Frosty the Snowman.)
1. Chapter 1

_EDIT: This story started out just as an exploration of how Jack met the other guardians before being asked to become one himself, but then it turned into a series of chapters about Jack's life, and then it turned back into its original form so if you're looking for the series of drabble's I made, I moved it out of convenience because keeping up with everything in one story was exhausting. I kept the Frosty the Snowman chapter though. _

* * *

I never forget a child.

In all my 100 years, I've never forgotten a face or a name or a voice. I can sit in a kid's room or suspend myself above their town and just see the map of their life pan out around me. Each kid is a story that only a select few will ever get to hear, a private friends-and-family concert. Of course, I'm not family, and I'm not what you would consider a friend, either, how many of your friends bring blizzards and snow days with them wherever they go? No, I'm not a friend. But I guess I'm friendly enough. I'm more of a friendly wallflower — wait, no, that's not right. Some people see wallflowers. I'm that feeling you get, that sparkle in your eyes when you're dying of laughter on the floor with your best friend and there's no other place you'd rather be. I'm a friendly observer, and in my years I've seen so much life in the eyes of kids. Every town is like a pocket world, with so many other worlds tangled up inside it. There's so much vivacity, so much cause for celebration in everyday life, but it seems like I'm the only one who sees that. And it's ironic, my life is just one sad little parallel of irony, I am the only one who sees the beauty, the majesty, in children, in life, in this wonderful, wonderful world and I'm the only one who doesn't get a slice of it. I've never been acknowledged, not once, for as long as I've haunted the Earth.

My name is Jack Frost, I'm a winter spirit, and no one can see me. That's all I know after an entire century.

There's a man in the moon, some call him fate, some call him God, but he's the only entity who knows I exist, so I can only assume he's the sick guy who brought be into being. Every time I look up at the craterous pearl, I can't tell if I want to thank him for always being there, or curse him for making me like this. He doesn't talk to me, though, just the same as everyone else.

I know the wind's not alive, but it moves like it is, so I consider it a friend. It takes me where I need to go, and I think it doesn't forget easily, like me.

It remembers a girl named Jill who's father and sister died of the plague, who lived the rest of her life with her estranged mother, and they never would say a word to each other until a huge blizzard swept in and brought them together. It remembers a boy too shy to propose, and a snowball that chucked it from his fumbling hands and into his soon-to-be-bride's. It remembers an odd friendship derived from two enemies when they tried to chase a large, floating snowflake and ended up getting lost together in the woods. It remembers every snow ball fight that ended in kissing and every snow day that delayed tax collectors from a particularly poor house, yeah, me and the wind, we remember every moment of it. Even if it never talks to me, either.

But still, it's the closest thing I have to companionship, so I jump from a steep roof and spread my arms, letting the air move through and around me, take me by the hand and lead me to my next location.

It takes me to London, where I remember every member of royalty or of peasantry and the history of their families dating all the way back to 1712. There's the Smiths, and the Whites, and the Corduroys, and the Jacksons, they're all still here, and there are even a few new faces, and I'll find out where they lived before in no time. I get to see how Rebecca's been doing, or if Nathaniel has worked up the courage to ask Mary out yet, and maybe —

Wait, hold on a second.

There's a man dressed in red trying to break into Penelope's house.

See, in addition to bringing the best season of all to mankind, I also keep the crime rate low, whenever I can. The thieves never know what hit them. Well, they do, actually, but they think it's snow, in the form of a ball or falling from a tree that had no frost at all moments prior, but, you know, they don't know it's me, so…

The red man jumps down the chimney, a plume of smoke rising from his descent. I form a sharp icicle in the palm of my hand and throw it down as hard as I can. I slip down the chimney myself to investigate.

He must've hit up several houses, his sack is enormous. It's no big deal, though, it's pretty late. I'm sure I can just return everything to its respective house before anyone even notices it's missing.

But there's no gold inside the sack, no sterling or silver or diamonds. There are dolls and jack-in-the-boxes (I try not to laugh at the irony any more than I already have), toy trains and brightly-painted balls. What kind of a thief steals junk like this? These toys could be making some kid's night, why would a man go through so much trouble to take it all away? The sack falls limp in my hands as I spot a tray left near the fire place. There are pale cookies sprinkled with powdered sugar, and they smell absolutely wonderful. In a glass next to them is some sort of beverage, white as the moon that's neither friend nor foe to me. I take a bite out of one cookie, moved by pure curiosity. I've seen kids eat pastries, but I've never had any myself. It turns out winter spirits really don't need to eat, and I'm always just living in the moment I never really… It's so good. It's as sweet as the feeling I get when I sit in on a wedding where the bride and groom truly are in love, or when a kid starts a playful snowball fight on his own and I don't have to. It melts my very core, and that says something, coming from Jack Frost himself. I take a sip of the drink and I can wager a guess that it's milk. It's creamy and purely delicious, it goes with the sugar cookie so nicely. I only take a small cookie, and an even smaller sip of the milk, because this is someone else's food and I really shouldn't be having any.

"Oh, boy." The man in the red suit says, staggering to a stand.

That's…weird. No one ever gets up after I peg them with an icicle.

I turn around and he's got some weird snow globe in his hand. He flicks his hands around the snowy, imprisoned water beneath the glass, and the image inside changes. There's an egg painted in pastels, a plume of peacock-esque feathers, a snowy castle, and finally a fountain of glittering gold sand.

"Sandy, there's a kid here who stayed up for Santa, do you think you can work a bit of your magic?"

For a moment, I swear he glances over at me, but then he looks back, and he is full on boring_ holes_ into my own eyes.

But then I turn around and my near-heart attack end there. He was staring at the cookies, obviously.

It was nice, if not absolutely terrifying, to pretend he could see me for a moment.

His sight hasn't left the cookies.

"Cancel that order, Sandy. I have message from belly."

Okay, this gentleman is clearly off his rocker. Who name's a snow globe Sandy and gives it orders in between stealing some kids' toys? Oh, and he's still staring at me, and by me, I mean a plate of admittedly delicious cookies.

But then his hands wrap around my collar and he drags me up to eye-level.

"Who are you?" he yells.

I can't speak, I can't move, only my eyelids work properly, but blinking multiple times doesn't really get us anywhere.

"I asked question, boy, who are you?!" he shouts, shaking me wildly.

"Y…you…you can see me…?"

I can barely use my own tongue. I have no idea what to say, I've never talked to anyone before, maybe this is just…what are those things called? You know, they happen when you're asleep? Um…dreams! That's right, this is just a dream, but…I've never dreamed before, so I don't know if that's entirely true. Both possibilities are impossible, but when you realize it's a dream, don't you wake up? No, this can't be a dream, his hands are very real and… warm? Am I using that right? It's weird, wherever I go, it's always cold, I am the embodiment of ice and snow, I've never felt _warmth_. But his hands…something stirs in my brain, and I just know in my core that what I'm experiencing is _warmth_.

"Of course, I can! We are legend, no?"

I can't say a thing, all I can do is stare at him.

"Who are you supposed to be, kid? You look like the snowflakes that fall, what is your name, legend?"

"…J-ja-ja…Jack! Jack Fr-rost, sir!"

He looks at me, confused. I guess I can't blame him, I'm plenty confused myself.

"You are bad legend?"

"No, no, sir, I… You can really see me?"

"Yes," he says, slightly annoyed, "I am legend, you are legend. I see you, and you see me." He explains slowly.

"I…I'm a legend?"

He slowly lets me go, back onto the floor.

"Yes. You have never been seen by child?"

"Never." I admit, slightly dazed. He was so _warm_.

"That is too bad. I am who the children call Santa, you hear of me?"

"No…"

"Ah, I bring toys to good children once a night every year."

"So you're not stealing them?"

"Stealing? No, never, not from good girls and boys. You see there is a naughty and nice list for everyone. Child naughty, no toys. Good, good toys. See?"

"'M I on the nice list?"

"After stunt you pull tonight? Never."

"Oh."

"Yes, the oh is right. You have delayed me good deal, if I do not get to all the houses, it is on your head."

He leaves a couple toys, and for the first time I realize every one has a tag with a name on it. Penelope is written on all of them. He gives me one last look before ascending back up the chimney.

I sit on the floor of the living room, criss-cross applesauce for some time, before I can fully process what just happened.

Someone saw me.

Someone looked me dead in the eye and said words that were aimed at me and I said words back and the words were _heard_. There's a man who knows I exist, and he knows my name too! He knows the sound of my voice, he knows what I looks like, and he knows what I do too! He talked to me! I talked to someone, and it was mutual! He heard me, I heard him. I'm so happy I could cry, but then I also remember that apparently the first living being who has ever seen me probably thinks I'm trash, but… But he saw me! He really did, I wasn't dreaming, whatever that actually is.

Not only that, but apparently I'm a legend? That sounds a lot sweeter than the gig I've got going, but…

What exactly is a legend?

Pale moonlight makes its way across the floor, and I know there's a man in the moon who knows exactly what a legend is.

But he'd never tell me.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks a lot for all the support I've gotten on this! Now the pressure's on not to disappoint any of you._

* * *

The best flights are at night and thankfully the wind, mindful as it is, normally takes me to my next stop right after the sun has melted on the horizon. At night, you can see the most beautiful stars. There are ones as white as the snowflakes I can conjure, some tinted red, but the most breath-taking of all are the gold, glittering stars that fall so close to the ground. They appear almost out of nowhere, and sometimes vanish before the moon has fully sunk from view.

Today there was a kid named Henry who was working on some homework, and he asked his mother why they couldn't see the stars any better. She had told him that they saw stars well enough or else it wouldn't be such a romanticized experience, but I'm not really sure what she meant by it. The stars don't need romanticizing, they're such a vibrant, glittering gold that catches your eye as you loop in out of houses alongside them. But the kid wanted to see them better? How much clarity do you need? You can reach out in touch them, I should know, I have. They disperse at the touch, but then weave back together to from another stream of starlight.

I'm riding through the cold of night, and chewing their conversation over in my head. The stars are out here just as brightly as everywhere else, I note at the receding town as the wind guides me onward. Henry could be part blind. Who knows.

The wind's been a faithful steed for so long, I can trust it enough to close my eyes.

But that trust, for the first time in a hundred years, is betrayed when I run into a solid wall, unwittingly. It sends me skidding backwards and I land on a bed of snow materialized not a moment before hitting the ground. I blink a couple times, but with each blink my eyelids get heavier and heavier. A warm, fuzzy darkness wraps itself around my mind and pulls me under.

Guess snow in India will have to wait.

* * *

I wake up with a jolt on cotton flooring, and as my head almost snaps to my knees, black, glittering stars fall to the floor.

_What._

There's a short man garbed in the brightest gold stars, looking at me with a hint of worry in his eyes.

I take a look around, noticing most of the furniture is made of gold stars and the floor isn't cotton at all — it's cloud. Pure, unadulterated (somehow keeping this entire place together despite being water vapor) cloud.

His eyes are on me. They're on _me_. Even after that encounter with the jolly red thief, which since then I've been hearing the stories about him everywhere, I still don't think that feeling of disbelief leaves me.

Wait.

He can see me, he lives in a house made of stars and clouds…

"A-are you the Man in the Moon?"

He just laughs good naturedly, but the only way anyone could tell he was actually laughing is through his body movements, the way his chest goes up and down, the broad grin in his pudgy face, the way his arms go to his chest as if the laughter is causing him difficulty with his lungs. He doesn't make a sound.

I guess he realizes I'm serious, because he stops his silent laugh as if he's forgotten himself.

He shakes his head.

"But, you can see me, and you're practically made of stars —"

I bring my hands to my face.

"Those aren't actual stars, are they?"

He shakes his head again.

"You're a legend."

He nods.

"And I'm a legend too, apparently." I take my hands off my face.

"But what does it mean, really, to be a legend? I don't think I get it. The big red guy delivers toys, I make snow, and you… what do you do?"

He outstretches his hand and I take it, partly because of the all-consuming curiosity and I'm still kind of mad at the wind for letting me hit a wall. I don't really have the chance to get mad anyone, so I take it where I can get it.

He helps me to my feet and starts doing some weird hand motions, and the stars gather around our feet and lift us out of his fortress in the sky. We slowly descend until we reach a child's bedroom. He pokes the stars lacing around her pillow and it disperses like when I touch it, but then it forms a bird, and continues to circle around the girl's head in its new form.

"You're…you're the Sandman?"

He nods, beaming.

"So, this…these aren't stars, they're dream sand. And I can only see it because I'm a legend. But then… what was that black sand that was on me? Is it because I don't dream?"

He shakes his head.

"It's not? Then w—"

A skull made of sand rises above the crown of his head.

"Is it because legends are dead? We're like ghosts?"

He shakes his head.

"But I don't see anyone else with black sand…is it because I'm…evil?"

He just shrugs.

"But black sand _is _bad…wait. Does it represent nightmares?"

He nods vigorously, seemingly pleased to be able to answer a question of mine with yes.

"But…why would — how could… I don't dream, Sandman."

He just shrugs, but the smile on his face tells me he does know. I don't press him for answers, though, because this is the second being who I'm not invisible around and I want to make a good impression.

Don't want to get on this guy's "Naughty list."

"Do the kid's believe in you?"

He nods, smiling wider than before.

I give a fraction of a frown, and his smile deteriorates just a bit. But then he looks me in the eye and bounces up to the balls of his feet, his smile completely renewed. He grabs a chunk of sand out from the endless stream and stuffs it into my trouser pocket. I give him a confused look, but he just winks and disappears.

So I just met the Sandman, another legend who can see me, and he gave me a gift.

I forget about my anger at the wind and jump out the window, howling so loudly Red Suit might hear me, and ride the wind for a couple miles or so, unrealistically ecstatic for the first time in my awful existence.

He liked me, I really think he did, or at least he didn't hate me, which is a lot better than my first encounter. A gift! A gift from the Sandman!

It's really pretty, but I'm not too keen on the extent of its abilities, so I keep it in my pocket, making sure not to spill a grain.

An hour later, I stop close to the outskirts of India and position myself comfortably between the branches of a nice, thick tree.

_The man in the red suit is coming at me with full force, my hair almost catching fire from the sparks his twin blades make. I stagger backwards, down the tree, my feet desperately pining for purchase on the shifting wood. The branches move like intertwining snakes as they slither around my feet and loop around my ankles. Suddenly I'm being dragged down, down, into the deep, dark depths of oblivion. I can still hear Father Christmas's sardonic taunts echo through my skull._

"_You are disgrace to the legends. Never seen by child? What kind of legend are you? Jack Frost you —"_

I shift in the tree and

"—_are no legend, the title, it's not fitting, you —"_

some of the sand

"—_are just sad, lonely freak."_

spills.

_A fiery blast of gold sand rushes up to meet my endlessly falling body. The darkness fades, and the man in the red suit's swords are nowhere to be found. Instead, he's armed with two mugs of hot coco. He hands one to me and I almost chug it all in one gulp. It's even better than the cookies and milk I got to try. He laughs joyfully and it's so infectious, I can't help but laugh as well. We're in Penelope's bedroom, sitting by her bed post, and when I look out the window, the Sandman waves at me, that great beam splitting his face. _

"_You should call him Sandy." Red Suit says._

_I wave back, smiling just as widely. _


	3. Chapter 3

I've only been back in the U.S. for six minutes, and I can already tell how foreign it is compared to the other countries. Sometimes I forget how strange Americans are. There's no bagged milk, their accents are funny, they leave the 'u' out of colour, ahem, color. I have to switch dialects every few months. Not that it really matters to anyone if I think color with a u or not, or if I even mistake it's snowing with il fait niege, but it couldn't hurt to try and keep up with the different kids. I guess it really falls on my shoulders to care.

But, yeah, these Americans. I saw a couple in the park with woven baskets, trying to gather eggs. But there weren't any chickens. When I tried to start a snowball fight, no one rose to the bait. They searched through trees and bushes, combed through the underbrush, not even paying the wind any mind. They kept looking, leafing through the forest for any sign of one, not taking their eyes off their beloved search even when I blew at them a breeze so strong it knocked the baskets out of their hands.

Some people are just so oblivious.

But they've got me curious now, so I decide to sit down on the grass and watch them as they dart back and forth, checking every square inch of the park for an egg. I set an index finger to a single blade of grass and smile at how the frost spreads like wildfire.

"Frost."

Finally someone notices my handiwork.

I stand up, brushing myself off flamboyantly, beaming at the vicarious recognition.

"Thank you, thank you. Now for my next trick I think I'll grace this fair meadow with a sprinkling of —"

I turn to catch the wind, but there's a 6'1" wall of fur blocking me.

"— snow."

"No, Frost." A deep baritone coated in a thick Australian accent whispers threateningly, "I don't reckon you will."

I slowly dare to look up at the piercing emerald eyes glaring down at me.

Great, just great! Another '_legend_,' one who probably won't tell me anything about what that actually means, and who, after only two seconds of knowing me, probably already hates my guts. More than Red Suit, if his hatred for me is a thing you can surpass.

And what did I even do to deserve any of this in the first place?

Sandy stressed that we weren't ghosts cursed to wander the Earth, but I'm starting to feel like I must've done something real bad in a past life to deserve all this.

"Hey, um," I back up a bit and try to dust the snow I left on his chest, but I only succeed in spreading more wildfire frost, "Sorry about that. I —"

"Hey —!" one of the kids cry.

Maybe he found an egg, fancy that.

"Shut yer trap," he orders, taking me by the hand and practically throwing me into the forest's deepest foliage.

"Ye almost got us spotted, Frost." He seethes.

"Spotted? But the kids…they can't…"

"Sorry. Should've worded that better. Ye almost got _me_ spotted, Frost."

"Wait, how do you know my name?"

"North told me about you."

"North?"

"Santa Clause? Old St. Nick? Father Christmas? This ringing any bells for you?"

"You mean Red Suit?"

"Ha! Never heard that one before, bet he'll be thrilled to know about yer little pet name."

"You know North?"

"Kid, will ye stop asking pointless questions? In case you didn't realize, it's _Easter Sunday_. I know that must not mean much to a troublemaker like ye, but to me and a planet full of children, it means a whole, bloody lot. They're looking for eggs right now that I haven't even hid yet because of that stupid snowstorm ye started on the Eastern seaboard!"

"Wait, let me get this straight. North gives them toys, Sandy gives them dreams, and you… you give them eggs…? No offense, but it sounds like you're scraping the bottom of the gift barrel."

This kangaroo is just about the sorriest legend I've met so far.

And I've met _me_.

"Yea, well, it must be a heck of a lot better than frozen water, if being seen by children is anything to go by."

"They… they can see you?"

"Clear as day, Frost. And I kind of want to keep it that way, so rack off, will you?"

What I did to North was a big misunderstanding.

How I met Sandy was a complete accident.

But there is not going to be a single word of what I have to say lost in translation, not one bit of this is accidental.

I gather the smoothest snowball I can into my hand and chuck it right at his retreating form.

It's only when the snow falls from his back like a miniature avalanche and he slowly turns around that I think that this maybe was not my best idea. But there's no backing down now. I conjure another snowball, feel the balance of it in my hand, the cool purity its weight brings, and chuck it at him.

I swear I hear him chuckle before his face contorts back into that of a stone-cold killer's.

He gathers snow in his hands and packs together a snowball larger than anything I would ever feel safe using around a child. He throws it at me, and despite my best attempt at dodging it, I catch the tail end of it as it sails past. It sends me skidding to the forest floor.

I'm not used to kids throwing that hard, or at me, or even getting hit with a snowball in the first place. I'm not used to the imbalance. But despite myself, I laugh, scooping up more snow and hurling it at the kangaroo.

He's even worse at dodging projectile snow than me. But he still manages to send back a frozen retaliation. I forget sidestepping this one, knowing its sheer size will be able to cover most of my distances. Most of my distances, except up. I glide to the trees, and from the safety of their branches, send another snowball his way. Through I've lost sight of him, it's hard to lose sight of the hardly-lethal ammo he lobs my way. It crumbles into tiny snowflakes as it meets its cruel, cruel end by my staff. I give a joyful bark at this, and I swear he returns it with a laugh of his own, but it really could just be my echo.

There's no retribution for the snow I send back his way for quite some time, so I shout after him,

"Giving up already?"

"It's _Easter_. I don't have the _time_." Instead of laughter, I hear the crunching of leaves and underbrush as he runs off to hide his eggs.

I have to work non-stop giving the children of the world winter year-round, and even I would spare the time for a snowball fight. But I guess that's only because it was the first mutual snowball fight I've ever had. It's a lot more intense when someone's actually gunning for me.

And while I do have to deliver winter to this entire country in just a few months, I still find that my curiosity is able to dictate if that's done in a timely fashion or not. So I follow the aussie. Sue me.

It's weird, having to follow someone and be stealthy about it. I basically have a soft spot for every kid in Burgress, and when I'm there I tend to pick a kid to follow around for a couple weeks. It puts me behind schedule, but no one ever really seems to mind. I'll walk them home, simply strolling through the ever-expanding town in broad daylight, making idle one-sided conversation. I'll sit with them when their parents are expected to be home late, giving them plenty of window frost to draw with. I've never needed to be quiet when hanging around someone, my invisibility takes care of all that.

Two seconds into following him, and he can already tell something's up. He stops in his tracks, and for a suffocating moment, sniffs the stagnant air. He shrugs it off as his imagination, and continues to sprint through the forest, hiding eggs near the kids, and darting off to another hunting site. In a hundred-twenty years' time I've gotten pre_tty_ good at controlling my strides, condensing jagged movements into something fluent. Once I put my mind to it, it becomes a matter of speed and reflexes rather than careful treading.

But if there's one thing I can't help, it's making a mess everywhere I go.

After a couple states, it seems like he's returning to his home, but he just stalks slowly into some dark place, and turns on me.

"What on the Man in Moon's green Earth do you think you're doing?" he prods my chest with a series of sharp-nailed pokes. My hand goes to my chest, absentmindedly. It's the first time in a long while I've felt any sort of pain, even the mildly uncomfortable kind. All I can do is stare at him.

"What? Nothing to say for yerself, ye filthy, no good, dirt-cheap trickster? Get out of my sight, and just leave me alone. I have an important job to do. Why don't ye go back to causing frostbite and hypothermia?"

He turns his back to me.

"W-wait, hey, I didn't mean to —"

"But ye did. Ye take the snow and wind with ye, and ye've probably buried most of my eggs so that no kid can find them. If come morning, they can't see me, I'm coming after ye."

"Wait, please! You said that hiding the eggs, it allows them to see you? So if I hide eggs —"

"It's different for everyone, Frost. Ye cover the globe with ice and snow, because that's ye thing. Hiding eggs is my thing. They believe in me, but they'll never see ye. Ye want to know why that is?"

I stare at him with fearful eyes.

"Because that's the way the Man in the Moon intended it to be."

He darts off, but I don't go after him.

I land on my knees, the impact sending white, hot flares up my thigh. I close my fingers around the gnarly wood of my staff, knuckles turning whiter than the snow they already resembled.

So that's it.

After a hundred twenty years, the answer to that burning question is something I've known all along.

I'm here because I'm a hindrance.

Okay.

* * *

_I've been thinking of making this a series of oneshots or twoshots of Jack's life instead of just how he met the other guardians. Thoughts?_


	4. Chapter 4

_This one's about Frosty the Snowman and oh my gosh is it depressing. I'm just warning you._

* * *

Over the course of ten years and thousands of dreams, Sandy manages to wear down on the beliefs Bunnymund (or at least, that's what he's called in the in them) planted in my head. I let him. They're beliefs I'm not too fond of. But I'm not an idiot. I understand that what I am is a hindrance, but that's not necessarily why I'm here, or why no one believes in me.

I'm not sure if it's something Sandy has to put thought into, or if the good dreams are just something he awakens inside of people, but ever since he'd given me the gift of dreaming, I'm better used to social interaction. Or at least better at not becoming a stuttering mess every time I meet a pair of eyes who see me. And he brings the most extravagant things to life, turning sand into huge, glittering mosaics without even blinking. Not that I'd know if he blinks or not, his personal dream visits have become few and far between since our first meeting. I probably haven't seen him at all in the past few years.

But what he does with sand is amazing. I've been thinking about it for a while. The dreams are one of the only consistencies in my life, so I've had a lot of reminders over the years and a great majority of where my mind wanders while I'm spreading snow is on the life he can conjure. I've only ever made ice and cold, which is miles apart from warm, breathing life.

But I'm up here, holding my own against the howling wind that pulls me by the collar and fails to dissuade, because I want to try. The wind grips at me angrily, as if with warning, desperately trying to send me back on schedule. I pay it no mind.

I start with a huge snowball, bigger than the width of my shoulders, for a sturdy base. Then I twirl my hands in what I'm willing to admit is a showy manner, and the snow rises and falls onto the base in a perfect sphere. I plop a smaller one on like a cherry to top it off. With my fingers I make indentions into the cherry layer, two circles for eyes and an elongated u for a mouth.

It…looks okay? Well, it starts to if I squint. It's nothing like the stuff Sandy does.

I take a deep breath and press my hands into its chest. I open my eyes from a squint to a wide-eyed stare. The snowman glows with a cerulean incandesce as it steps — or should I say waddles? Forgot the feet — outside of itself. I give a soft smile.

I can create life.

But it doesn't return my smile, in fact, when I start, its mouth droops. Arms explode from the rounded abdomen like gun shots. Its iron-wrought scowl deepens as it lifts its newly-acquired limbs to the heavens and screams.

I scream too.

It gives inarticulate shouts of pain, thrashing its arms about like a mad man. It starts swinging at me, but I jump high above its arms span.

"Hey, hey, buddy, it's okay. My name's Jack Frost. What's yours?" I try to reach it, but it doesn't stop trying to attack me for a moment.

"Frost!" it hollers, "Fro! Rost! Fr! Ssssssst! Ossssssss! Frosy! Frosty! Frosty! Frosty!"

It waddles away from me, and I let it. All around me, the wind goes on briskly like before, as if saying I told you so. It whips my clothes around and I finally follow its advice, heading far away from the scene of the crime.

So I can't create life.


	5. Chapter 5

_Omg that Frosty thing was supposed to be like Doodle Bob from Sponge Bob, you know, a big joke but I don't know I was planning to update an Edward Elric fic of mine so I guess it took a bit of a Fullmetal Alchemist turn? I warned you, okay. _

* * *

The dreams slowly realign into an unfamiliar face over a course of time. I think it's because Sandy's trying to tell me something. It could finally be the answer to this whole legend thing, but I know better than to do something crazy like get my hopes up. I don't forget easily, remember? And even if I did, it's kind of hard to forget the last real encounter I've had with a legend.

I'm doing everything right, in my honest opinion. But no matter how hard I try, they still slip right through my fingers. And sometimes when I see them huddled around a fire or a gas lamp, I wonder what it must be like to be warm. It's weird, okay? I know. Frost is my middle name. Well, actually, it's my last, but you get the picture. I'm not supposed to want warmth. I know what it's like to be hot, like when I have to hold my powers back for the sake of a child with a chill, and it feels so swelteringly uncomfortable inside and my brain feels like it's going to overheat and I'm just going to explode, and trust me, that's not a good feeling. So what's with this want to suddenly be warm?

I don't rightly know. I guess it's because warmth is supposed to be a controlled heat, like cool is a controlled cold. Like a small, flickering flame that spreads evenly in the air. Or whatever. I don't need to be warm, it's just a thought. I still have the cold, that's still enough.

But then the dreams start to get to me. I don't think it's Sandy dictating them anymore, it might just be me. Like all of these odd little thoughts just run rampart inside of me while I'm asleep. I can't tell if I'm bothered by them or not.

There's another legend in them, and she's a gentle spirit. There's a subtle warmth to her.

It starts out with just us two sitting next to a sleeping child. Her delicate wings suspend her high above his bed and her body is covered in colorful plumes. She talks and laughs and has all sorts of profound things to say, but I can't talk back to her, for some reason, even though she's a legend. She talks to me, looks me dead in the eyes, but I can't say anything. The kid wakes up, and she starts to talk to him too. But I can't. He doesn't even look at me, and neither does she. I try to get her attention, but my arms slip right through her. And then I'm falling, even after I'm awake, I'm still falling. There's that elevation to my stomach as if I'm freefalling and it just doesn't go away, no matter what I try.

I think she's the tooth fairy the kids talk about. They go on and on about her, how cool she is, how pretty she must be, how _real _she is and it's gotten to the point where if I hear her name one more time I am going to scream. Apparently she takes their teeth in the night and leaves them quarters? I give them the best snow days of their lives, and what thanks to I get? No one ever mentions how cool I am, and you won't catch a kid on this Earth trying to convince his friends that I'm real. You won't even catch me trying to validate that claim.

Not only that, I have to hear stories about Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny and how great they are and how they're all positive they saw them last time, or that they're sure they're going to catch them this time, and no one wants to hang out and play in the snow on Christmas or Easter. No one talks about Sandy, but they still believe in him.

I bet they probably have their own little club and feel pretty chummy together up in North's workshop where it's warm and they're around people they care about, but you know what? One day they'll beg me to join them. And I'll tell them no. Because Jack Frost doesn't need warmth.

* * *

_Okay, so he didn't really meet Tooth. But in the movie it's implied that they never have, and he resents all of them at the start of it, so I stayed as true to it as possible. _


End file.
